


leave me on the floor again (make it easy this time)

by Metronomeblue



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Arguing, Closeted Character, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Enemies, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reconciliation, Treason, because soft, canon compliant through One Step Ahead, idk how to tag this honestly it’s just a lot of talking and kissing, or mentions thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23525272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: “-I’m not going to kill you. I know what it feels like to be that person. I know what it feels like to have your blood on my hands. I’m not going to kill my best friend.”Curt talks Owen down. There is reconciliation.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 13
Kudos: 191





	leave me on the floor again (make it easy this time)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I want a happy ending. I will make it happen. I don’t care how.

“You think I care about secrets, Curt?” Owen’s hand shook, and Curt felt his stomach writhe, painful, guilty. “You think I believe in this like it’s some kind of higher fucking purpose?” He jabbed the gun forward; his shaking hand was so close to Curt’s chest that he could feel the warmth of it. “I’m doing this because it matters to you. This matters to you. And I want to tear it to the fucking ground.” Curt reached up, gently, slowly, and wrapped a hand over Owen’s. He watched his face contort, pained, and then settle once more into smooth fury. 

“You were going to kill me for Von Nazi.” It wasn’t a question, but Owen startled as if compelled to answer.

“No. I was going to kill you for  _ me _ .”

“You tortured me,” Curt said softly, and Owen pulled his hand back weakly. Curt held on, this time. He didn’t let go. “You hurt me, and you broke me down, and you were one Russian spy away from beheading me.” Owen avoided his eyes, gazed angrily at the barrel of the gun pressed to Curt’s heart. “Why not just shoot me now?”

“I want you to suffer-“

“I  _ have _ suffered. What changed, Owen? Between you wanting me dead and you letting me talk to you right now, what changed?” Curt was never this patient. He was never this direct. Owen swallowed, looked to him, looked away. Looked him in the eye, grip tightening on the gun.

“You said I broke your heart,” Owen said, and his voice was rough, broken, a rumble of shattered glass and small sadness and a stab of abandonment that pulsed in each word. 

“I love you,” Curt said, and Owen’s face crumpled again. He sniffled, looked away, trying in vain to control himself.

“Wrong tense, old boy,” Owen said, flashing a fake, cavalier grin that shook and flickered. He laughed, in a higher, more painful facade of uncaring. “It’s ‘loved.’”

“Not for me,” Curt said, and his voice was plain. Owen looked into his eyes, flat and honest, cold. Curt didn’t lie very well. He was avoidant and childish, and half the time he didn’t even bother to lie in the first place. Owen waited for something more, a condemnation or a glare, a laugh or a trick. But Curt just looked up at him, words laid bare. 

“You left me there to die. You looked me in the eye and you  _ ran _ .” Owen’s voice broke, again, and he wished he was stronger. Less prone to kindness and softness. Less prone to opening himself up to things he shouldn’t. “That’s not love.” Curt’s eyes softened, guilt welling you in his face.

“No,” Curt said, stepping up again, just three steps below Owen. Owen’s arm followed him, gun kept in lock with his heart, hand in Curt’s hand. “It was cowardice. It was stupidity. And overconfidence.” His face was gentler now, still honest, and Owen hated how it made his chest burn. “And I’m sorry.”

“That’s not enough,” he whispered. He couldn’t bring himself to say it full, and it made him angry. All this time, all this work, and Curt Mega’s voice saying “I love you” was the thing to break him? It made Owen furious. It made him doubt himself. He was beyond this. He’d moved on. He’d moved on. Curt nodded, smiling, and the smile wiped Owen’s body clean of turmoil. It was the same smile Curt had flashed that night, just before Owen fell. He felt cold again. Collected, purposeful. Cruel. “I’m going to destroy everything you believe in,” he said again, softly. “I’m going to make you feel what I felt, watching my world fall apart, watching the man I-“ His voice died, then rose, a rasp of bitterness. “The man I  _ trusted _ run away. I am going to slaughter your friends and leave you alone forever, and when you are on your knees, begging me to kill you, I will refuse.” Owen lowered the gun, his hand slipping free of Curt’s hand, warmth leaving him for the chill of the factory. “I will ruin you, Curt Mega.”

“No,” Curt said softly. “You won’t.” There was a moment, long, protracted, where Owen could see the gun in his hand, the movement of it, the exact angle of his aim. He could stop him, Owen knew. He could kick the gun from Curt’s hand and have him on the fucking floor in seconds.

But Owen only blinked, and the moment passed. 

He couldn’t say why, not at the time, and not after. He couldn’t explain, if Chimera asked, why he just allowed Curt to disarm him. He couldn’t explain to Curt, either. But Curt would never have had to ask in the first place. Curt was good like that.

“You won’t,” Curt repeated, aiming his gun at Owen’s forehead. “I won’t let you.”

“What are you doing?” Owen asked blankly. “The system is online. Killing me won’t serve a purpose.” Curt’s face twitched, and he frowned. There was concern there, a flicker and a flash of despair.

“I’m not killing you, Owen.” 

“Because you’re better than me?” Owen scoffed, shaking his head weakly.

“Because I love you,” Curt said again, soft, almost gentle. “I spent four years thinking you were dead-“

“I am,” Owen said. Curt’s face tightened, something like worry, like love, caught in those brown eyes. 

“-I’m not going to kill you. I know what it feels like to be that person. I know what it feels like to have your blood on my hands. I’m not going to kill my best friend.”

“Is that what we are?” Owen didn’t move. How could he. He was fixed to the spot like he was stone, his legs too tired to move, his heart too shattered to fight.

“To me? Always.” Curt lowered the gun. Owen could kick it from his hand. He could land a solid blow and take it. He could- “Don't make this hard, Owen. We can do this the easy way.” Curt was pulling handcuffs from his pocket, eyes fixed on Owen, one hand still clutching his gun.

“You really are a fool, Mega.” Owen didn’t move. Not even when Curt turned him, and he waited for the sharp burn of a bullet in his back, but it never came. Instead he felt his wrists being grasped by warm, firm, familiar hands, pulled behind him. 

“I’m saving you this time,” Curt said, voice tender with regret. “I’m not- I’m not killing you twice. And you won’t be sharing the world’s secrets, either. This time, I can- I can win.” He closed the first cuff around Owen’s wrist. Owen’s heart sank, deep like lead in his stomach.

“Win what, Curt?” He asked tiredly, roughly. “What game are we playing now?”

“We aren’t,” Curt replied, closing the second cuff around Owen’s other wrist.

“Then just… end it, Mega. The way it should have ended.” Owen felt a tug, a painful push, and then his back was to the wall, Curt pressed up against him.

“I told you,” Curt breathed heavily into the space between them, ragged with relief. “I spent four years mourning you, thinking it was my fault. I won’t let it be my fault. I won’t let you die.”

“Why not?” Curt looked back at him, words unsaid hanging between them.

“I don’t want to live without you again.”

“I almost killed you,” Owen said, and Curt shrugged. 

“Better you than anyone else.” Neither of them breathed, just for a moment.

“I almost killed you,” Owen whispered, again. It was an apology. It was agony. Curt nodded, leaning in. The brush of their noses, the heat of their breath. Owen felt his heart break. Again. Curt’s lips, chapped and perfumed with whiskey. Again. The faint taste of blood. Again. The ache of Curt’s hand curling into his hair. Again. Everything was ash, cold metal, blood and alcohol and Curt-

Owen waited for the bullet in his heart. The knife in his throat. The stab in the back, the shot to the forehead, the fist to his trachea. 

It never came. 

Curt could taste tears, along with beeswax and the echo of whiskey from before the mission started. He could feel the faint wetness on his cheeks, and if they were his tears or Owen’s, he couldn’t say. He wouldn’t want to. 

They were the same thing, really.

Neither of them wanted to break the kiss, for fear it would be the last. They both remembered the last time, the last night, Curt scoffing at the idea of their being separated, Owen refusing to stop discussing it. He’d said they needed a plan. That MI6 and the States had plans to keep them from cooperating, but Curt had distracted him, hands sliding warm and familiar down his sides and into his trousers, resting on his hips, just shy of inappropriate, just a little bit more of a tease than Curt knew he could get away with. They’d kissed often, and fucked once, and made love twice, and Owen remembered the way Curt hadn’t said goodbye before he left, had been so sure they’d see each other again. And they had, in a fashion. They’d crossed paths, that last mission before Owen’s path ended. 

He remembered. Owen’s hands were bound, pinned between his back and the wall, and they itched for Curt’s skin, to touch, to taste, to hold. He’d never wanted like this, never needed like this. He hated it. Kept his hands curled into fists to keep it in. Painful, insecure love rushed through him, still bruised, still bitter, but pleading. Disgusting. Sentimental. Weak.

Curt’s hands cupped his face, and Owen felt the softness of his touch like a chill down his spine, like a long, slow fall. He broke the kiss, bumping his nose to Curt’s, unwillingly affectionate.

“Love,” Owen began, and Curt pressed a short, grateful kiss to the line of his jaw.

“I missed that,” Curt said softly. He had a horrible, sad smile on his face. So much relief in his face, in his gentle hands. He nodded, pressed another kiss to Owen’s cheek. “I missed you.” It was like being branded. Like his heart was being pressed to white hot metal with every word, every gentle touch of lips to his skin. He could never forget what Curt did to him. He would never truly forgive it. But there was this, still. There was love between them. Repulsive, almost, sickening in its softness, its weakness, but Owen embraced it. He could no more stop loving Curt than he could stop breathing- to do so would kill him. Again.

Curt looped a hand between Owen’s, clutching the link between cuffs, and led him down the stairs. It was humiliating. It was frustrating. It was less than Owen deserved. When they reached the floor, Curt knelt, tugged Owen down with him, leaned over to kiss him.

They laid on the floor, lips brushing lips, chest brushing chest, a parody of afterglow. Owen’s gun was about two meters to his left, Curt’s bullet buried in its barrel. He looked at it from time to time, waiting for Curt to try and use it on him. Curt was propped up on one arm, leaning down over Owen to kiss him. It felt like before. It felt dangerous, like a rush of adrenaline, a narrow escape. It felt like falling to his death, the sick snap of his spine colliding with this floor. Owen wondered, absently, if Curt had laid him down in the same spot, the chalk outline of his past. The place Curt had thought he’d died, broken and bloody and cursing Curt’s name.

“What are you going to do with me?” Owen asked, barely a breath between their lips. Curt looked down, hand still warm, still stroking gently at Owen’s cheek. 

“Take you back to America with me.” Curt’s voice was deadened, empty of inflection. “You’ll be tried for something.”

“Mm, yes. And then what?”

“And then you… you’ll go to prison.”

“I’ll kill myself before the week is out and you know it.”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t be a prisoner, Curt.” Owen’s arms shifted, as if he reached on impulse only to find himself cuffed. He frowned up at Curt, eyes soft, velvet-dark with old fear. “I will not be caged.” Curt swallowed, and he knew they were both thinking of secrets, of slurs, of Owen’s voice full of shame, quietly admitting he’d never been in love before, of the violence of justice for someone like them.

“You won’t be,” Curt promised, a whisper. “I won’t let them. Not to England, at least.”

“You’ve broken free of American intelligence,” Owen told him, reminded him. Curt winced. “I’m a criminal on all levels of law. You can’t stop them if you take me in.”

“Owen-“

“Come with me,” he whispered, desperation brewing in his gaze. “Curt, please. We could- we could be together.”

“And burn the world to the ground?” Curt’s voice was as broken as Owen’s, and he ached to touch him, to pull him closer, to comfort, to hold him. The cuffs chafed on his wrists, his arms all static under his back. He felt so far from the man who stood on that staircase, so far from the man who nearly killed Curt just days ago, the man who- 

“No,” Owen admitted. “No, I don’t care about that anymore.” It shouldn’t have been true, really. But it was. It was.

“Why not?”

Owen said nothing. 

“Why not, Owen?”

“Because I love you,” is what he should have said. It was the truth. Instead, he said-

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Curt looked at him the same as if he’d said what he meant. Owen hated him for it. Curt kissed him again, palm resting flat on Owen’s chest, just where he could feel his heartbeat. 

“I’m not joining Chimera,” Curt said flatly, as soon as he pulled back. “I refuse to tell my mother that I’ve ceased being a secret agent only to become an  _ evil _ secret agent. No thank you.”

“Then what will you do?” Owen asked, licking the last trace of whiskey from his lips. “Work in an office?”

“Boring,” Curt scoffed, propping himself up so he was leaning over Owen. “I was thinking we could start our own group. You and me and Tatiana. Maybe Barb.”

“Barb Larvenor may love you, but she is not a fool, Mega.” Owen couldn’t stop looking at him. It was painful, like looking at the sun. Burning a hole through his heart. The freckles on his neck, the strand of hair pulled loose to hang in front of his eyes, the kiss-red flush on his mouth, the soft smile lines beginning at the corners of his eyes. “She won’t betray anyone for you.”

“Like you will?” Curt was joking, smiling down at Owen in that way he always did when he didn’t mean something.

“Like I already have,” Owen corrected him. The smile disappeared. 

“What does that mean? Chimera-“

“I was meant to kill you.” Owen smiled. “I really do have no one now.”

“You have me.”

“Do I?”

“You and I,” Curt said, in that soft, loving voice. Low, for Owen and Owen alone. “I’ll never let you down again.”

“I’ll never turn away,” Owen murmured, watching Curt’s ears flush, his nose and cheeks turn pink. “Never again, love. We’ll be better. This time we’ll be better.” Curt nodded, pressing his face to Owen’s, hands stroking over Owen’s shoulders, body pressed flush to Owen’s. It was a strange embrace, but Owen leaned into it. He didn’t say he loved Curt, but he thought it. Over and over until it was familiar again. Until it didn’t hurt.

“Partners,” Curt whispered.

“Partners,” Owen agreed. 

They lay there, soaking in each other’s warmth, breathing in the scent of their ruin, four years of dust and rust and ash drifting through the air like snow. Owen smelled of sweat, of soap, gunpowder and steel. Curt smelled like whiskey, sweat from the pursuit, pomade and aftershave, blood and worn leather. It was like coming home, becoming accustomed to the shape of each other’s bodies, the feeling of touch, old tenderness and love resurfacing. Almost unwelcome. Almost unforgivable. Owen shifted, moving his cuffed hands to reawaken the nerves.

“Love, please untie me.” Curt smiled, cheerily this time, pulling his face from the crux of Owen’s shoulder and neck.

“No.”

“Curt, we really should lea-“

“No.” Curt leaned in closer, his knee pressing up between Owen’s thighs, his weight shifting. 

“Oh,” Owen said, blinking. “So we’re playing that game, are we?”

Curt’s smile widened.

“Personal history has its benefits, Carvour.” And then he kissed Owen, and it was like a knife through the heart in all the best ways.

* * *

They lived, happily. 


End file.
